


flame amoureuse

by Sway



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Light Femdom, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25844812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sway/pseuds/Sway
Summary: It's their game, their rules, and he's their pawn.Hadn’t Laszlo been asked - no, told - by Sara to join them, to bear witness to them, observe them, he’d have been drawn in all the same.
Relationships: Sara Howard/Laszlo Kreizler/John Schuyler Moore
Kudos: 62





	flame amoureuse

**Author's Note:**

> I recently binged the show and I absolutely adore these three together... That's all I can say for myself, really... It's a bit weird, a bit artsy, maybe a bit sexy... I hope you enjoy!

Her chemise is bunched up around Sara’s hips, her hands curled into the fabric. The lacing of her corset is halfway undone, the endeavor of getting her out of the garment abandoned midway. Now it leaves her in an almost uncharacteristically disarrayed state of undress; the swell of her breasts threatened to be bared, even her carefully pinned curls have come partly undone. 

She is sprawled on the chaise, her head rolling back against the cushion, her mouth slightly open to release laboured breaths. 

It’s a perfectly debauched display. 

That John is kneeling between her thighs only aids as the icing on the proverbial cake.

Laszlo has stopped counting how many times he’s tried to look away, to not be voyeur to this. But again and again his gaze is drawn back to the clench and unclench of Sara’s fists in her dress, to the shift in John’s shoulders as he moves between her legs. The sounds of her little moans and hushed whispers trickle down the back of his neck whereas John’s breathless groans against her sex curl into something white hot in the pit of Laszlos’s stomach. 

He knows they put on a show for him, have orchestrated this to play him like the rarely used instrument that he is, and there is nothing he can do about it. Hadn’t he been asked - no, told - by Sara to join them, to bear witness to them, observe them, he’d have been drawn in all the same. He’d still sit in his chair, the cigarette he’d lit long forgotten and nothing but a string of ash between his fingers. He’d still have his other hand, the useless one, rest loosely in his lap and this close to his hard cock. 

“Come sit with me, Laszlo.” Sara’s voice is heavy and far away. This new cadence almost doesn’t register with Laszlo and he only reacts to her outstretched hand, beckoning him.

The walk over to the chaise seems impossibly long and Laszlo catches himself dragging his feet; as if he’s afraid to burst their little bubble should he tread too heavily.

At last, he sinks down next to her, sits on the edge of her chamise and quickly scoots away. 

From this angle he feels even more like an intruder rather than the invited guest. From here he can smell the tinge of sweat that’s layered over Sara’s perfume. From here he can look into John’s face; the eyes closed in bliss, the tip of his nose squished against her flesh, the tip of his tongue lapping at her, his fingers buried deeper and moving at an opposing rhythm. It’s intimate and sensual yet open and raw, and it leaves Laszlo’s head spinning; he can’t take his eyes off them.

Sara finishes with a hitched breath, her body going rigid, hands grappling for something to hold on to. One finds the bunch of her chemise, the other Laszlo’s knee. She clenches down hard on him, and he won’t mind it if she leaves bruises - evidence of her ecstasy - on his skin.

John sits back, his chin, lips and moustache glistening with her spendings. Slowly, he withdraws his hand, drawing an almost pained whimper from Sara. She arches her back, seeking the contact but only bucks her hips into the absence of his touch.

“Feel me, Laszlo,” she says, barely whispering the words. She reaches for his good hand and guides it between her thighs.

Laszlo catches himself holding his breath when his fingers find her wetness. He sinks easily into her heat and she pushes against him, demanding more. He knows what she’s doing, what she’s asking him to do. He has analyzed such behaviour countless times. But to see it - literally feel it - first hand… that is something else entirely. It’s enticing and intoxicating and some primal part of him responds to it without conscious thought.

He shifts in his seat and changes his angle, his thumb brushing her center, and she lets out a strangled little cry. When he leans into her, about to bury his face against her neck to drink in more of her scent, John’s hand closes around Laszlo's chin. 

Slick lips press against his and he can taste Sara in John’s mouth. 

Laszlo hears himself moan when John pulls away, an almost pained and pathetic sound. He wants more for that flavor that is both John and Sara, that is John's expensive whisky in the back and Laszlo's cigarette on the tip of his tongue. 

“May I touch you?” John's question is almost too chaste for the situation and Laszlo would reprimand him for it were he still able to. Instead he just nods.

John's hand - the one he's touched Sara with so intimately - finds the hard swell of Laszlo's cock with ease. Laszlo's body reacts to the touch immediately, presses into it, into the firm palm that pushes against his shaft. He's close and can't keep it secret. He spreads his knees further, letting John's hand caress him through the fabric of his pants. 

They have never seen each other naked and yet John knows exactly where and how to touch him, knows Laszlo is the most sensitive just below the crown. John knows how much pressure to apply there to take him over the edge but it's Sara's voice that actually does it.

“It's alright, Laszlo. It's quite alright.”

Laszlo soils himself in his pants, spilling into John's hand, separated from his immediate touch by only a few thin layers of fabric. He comes hard, the blood rushes in his ears, but he still manages to keep his eyes on John, on the thin little smile under that thin little mustache that's still damp with Sara.

It's that same dampness that fills Laszlo's hand as Sara reaches another height, riding it out against his palm. Her fingers curl around Laszlo's wrist, keeping his hand between her thighs until she's done.

“What about you?” Laszlo hears himself ask, the first words uttered in a long time.

John shakes his head, his smile widening. “Don't worry about me. I finished a while ago.”

Only then does Laszlo notice the wet spot in John's pants, matching his own.

“As soon as his tongue touches me,” Sara explains almost too nonchalantly. “I dare to believe it's what satisfies him best. What do you think that means, Laszlo?”

Laszlo doesn't know but he doesn't say that. He doesn't say anything. He just withdraws his hand from between Sara's legs and hesitantly puts his fingers against his lips, tasting her. What he does know is that this is the only way he'll get to taste her, touch her, be with her. For more he has to live through John and what little scraps he's allowed to have from them. 

It's their game, their rules, and he's their pawn.


End file.
